Fallout: Ode To My Darlings
by GreenOne23
Summary: Struggling to come to terms with the gruesome deaths of his wife and daughter John Reynolds sets off to lose himself in the seemingly endless desert. The memories of that day hunt his every waking moment and haunt his dreams at night. To make matters worse, a menacing shadow is closing in on him as he teeters on the edge of the abyss.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The memories won't go away. They haunt my dreams at night and squat on my mind like a feral on a corpse during the day. I've tried so hard to forget but no matter what I do they are there crouching in the forefront of my mind. No matter where or I go they are there. I tried drowning them out with cheap wasteland alcohol and chems but they refused to be silent. I thought mercenary work would be enough of a distraction but I still couldn't escape them. I thought being a wanderer would give me some reprieve but they still claw at my mind. No matter what I do I can't get away from them. Every night I hear their screams in my sleep. Every time I close my eyes I'm forced to watch them die over and over again helpless as their lives bleed away in my arms.

The screams tear at my mind like a razor blade. I see the looks of fear and pain in their eyes day and night as my mind replays that terrible moment on a continuous loop. My little girl looks up at me as her life ebbs away. She clutches at the gaping wound in her stomach with one little hand as a tendril of blood trickles from her mouth. She looks from me to her mother as her eyes close for what I know is the last time. My beloved slumps against me as she wraps an arm around our precious little child one last time. With a shuddering breath she collapses against me and I watch the light in those green eyes go out. There is nothing I can do but watch them die and it tears a gaping wound in my soul. I can faintly hear the laughter of those strange men as I fade into inky blackness. The last thing I see as I black out is that strange feathered helmet.

These are the memories that fill my fitful nights and my every waking moment. It has been a total of three years, four months and three weeks since that horrible day. But the memories are as fresh in my mind as if they had only just happened. The love of my life and my precious little girl so violently stolen from me in a single moment. The only thing I have to remember them is that old worn photo the scavenger took of us in Goodsprings. It is all I have left. I keep it close to me at all times safe in a little leather pouch under my shirt near my heart. At least in some small way they are still with me. I don't want to let go of them. I can't.

I've wandered alone ever since never knowing why I survived and they didn't. It is a cruel joke that two of the most beautiful souls in this world were extinguished but so many evil men are allowed to live on. What did my Natalie do to deserve to die? Why was my sweet little Anna taken from me? I guess I'll never understand and I'll just have to carry these memories with me for the rest of my life. That's if the raiders or the ferals don't get me first. I heard about those poor bastards down south in Coyote Springs who were eaten alive by a pack of ferals. At least that's something. At least my sweet ones don't have to go through this daily hell any more. But I don't think I'll ever stop feeling the pain of losing them. My soul was ripped to shreds that day leaving me nothing but a broken shell of who I once was. Nothing destroys a man like having to watch the people he loves most in the day bleed to death in his arms knowing there isn't a damned thing he can do.

My wanderings eventually led me to Sinclair. A rundown desert town in the ass end of Nevada with nothing but a few shacks and an empty saloon to its name. The locals tell me that they found me on the edge of town passed out in a ditch. It seems that after I ran out of food and water I gave in to the wasteland. But I really can't remember anything after my canteen ran dry. The kindly old man at the saloon told me I would've died if his boy hadn't found me. It seems fate isn't done with me yet.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

There was once an old saying about a picture being worth a thousand words. If that is true then the worn photograph in its plastic sleeve must be worth more words that the mouth can speak. For in its sepia-toned depths lie the echoes of two lives and one that continues on alone. The still likenesses on that emotionless scrap of glossy material were all that remained of the dearly beloved. A ghostly yet unspeakably cherished reminder of a true love and the beloved child born from that love. They now lay buried in the cold earth with crosses and a memorial stone marking their final resting places. A memorial to each of them had been carved into their respective stones by the one left behind so that they might be remembered.

The figure sat at a corner table in the Stumbling Brahmin Saloon concealed in a patch of shadow. His finger danced across the photograph affectionately lingering on its two female occupants. A soft sigh escaped from between his lips and he reached for the beer bottle in front of him. It was a somewhat sour batch of homebrewed wasteland beer but the cold taste of the alcohol in his mouth helped to chase away the screams and the jeers. The sudden bite as it hit his tongue distracted him from the memories that constantly clawed at his sanity.

"I thought I'd find you here," said that familiar raspy voice "sitting in your gloomy corner staring at that photograph again. You're not doing yourself any good you know."

"You always seem to find me don't you Dale?" the figure answered without looking up at the ghoul "I can't just forget them. I loved them more than anything else in this world. Do you know what it's like to see the two people you love most murdered right in front of you? Do you know what it's like to have to watch knowing you can't do a damn thing?!"

"I can't say that I do," Dale replied taking a seat across from his sombre companion "but I don't think either of them would want you moping about in a shady corner table drinking away your sorrows on cheap homebrew. That ain't living John. We both know they'd want something better for you."

Had it still been possible for ghouls to frown then Dale would be doing so. He leaned forward in his chair to look directly at the man he'd grown to know over the past month. His furrowed brows spoke of a deep concern and an indecipherable emotion flickered in his dark eyes. Across from him sat a young man in his mid-thirties dressed in a grubby red chequered shirt and worn brown pants. A gap at the neck of the shirt revealed an equally dirty white undershirt beneath it. His hair had grown into a dark mass of unkempt black curls that were currently coated in a thick layer of dust and grime. The wasteland had a way of making everything filthy in what seemed like mere moments. So his friend's overall grubby appearance was nothing out of the ordinary.

Dale looked much the same as the next non-feral ghoul. His skin was heavily peeled and mottled due to his condition. Large patches of defiant blond hair refused to give up their grip on his scalp giving him an unusually full head of hair for a ghoul. He wore a long leather jacket over a dirty white t-shirt and worn black jeans. Dale was particularly proud of the undamaged leather boots he'd scavenged from the wasteland. When he said 'scavenged', he actually meant stolen from a strung out slaver he'd beaten senseless when he'd made the mistake of attempting to kidnap him.

"What else can I do?" the sullen figure replied between sips "I lost everything and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it! I saw the woman I loved more than anything in this world butchered in front of me. I was forced to watch as they held her down and cut her to ribbons! They made me watch as they impaled my little girl. She was only five Dale! How am I supposed to keep going after that?"

"I'll tell you how John," Dale replied with his gaze firmly fixed on his friend "you celebrate their lives and you keep them alive in your heart. You don't let a day go by when you don't remember them and you honour the lives they led by living your life to the fullest. You were given a chance to make their deaths mean something so you can either sit here slowly drinking yourself to death or you can get out there and make them proud. Avenge their deaths by saving others from the same fate."

John leaned forward in his chair and let out a long sigh. Dale had a knack for knowing exactly what to say to get through to him. He knew that Dale spoke the truth and that he wouldn't give him even the briefest moment of peace until he relented. His ghoul friend was stubborn in that regard and rather spirited in his pursuit of doing what he thought was right. Dale had taken it upon himself to help him deal with his loss and he wouldn't take sullen silences for an answer.

A low shuddering sigh escaped from between John's lips before he could stop it. He drained the last of his beer in one gulp and placed the empty bottle on the table with an audible thump. Deep down he knew Dale was right and that he wouldn't be able to go on with life until he'd had his revenge. If going on with his life was even still an option. Perhaps hunting down the bastards who murdered his wife and daughter would make the memories stop. Maybe revenge would fill the gnawing emptiness inside him. Dale had planted the seed in his mind and now he could think of nothing else.

"You're right Dale," he said rising from his seat "you're always right. Perhaps it's time to try and find some closure. Anything has got to be better than sitting here letting the memories tear my mind apart like a Fire Gecko on a Brahmin. Maybe it's time I did something…"

"That's the spirit," Dale answered in the typical raspy tone unique to ghouls "no more sitting around drinking yourself into a stupor. It's a waste of time and caps. You're not going to find closure sitting at a gloomy corner table in a dead-end saloon. If I know one thing about traumatic memories it's that they don't go away until you do something about them."

John made his way out into the late afternoon heat. No matter what time of day it was the desert always seemed to be equally hot. The sun blazed down with a menacing intensity that sapped the energy and burnt any exposed skin. But the nights were equally cruel once the tyranny of the desert sun had abated. The hours of darkness brought with them a biting cold that whipped any bare skin a rosy red and chilled you to the bone. Extremes of both heat and cold made the desert an unpleasant place to live. But if you grew up in the Nevada Wasteland you eventually become acclimatized to it. Unfortunately, he'd grown up in Freeside safe from the bitter desert wastes so he found himself out of his element in a hostile environment that wanted to kill him.

But he couldn't go back to Freeside. Everything there would remind him of his Natalie and precious little Kaitlyn. His every waking moment would be filled with constant painful reminders of the loved ones cruelly taken from him. Looming spectres of the life he'd been robbed of. The Old Mormon Fort where he and Natalie had spent so many long days working to ease the suffering of those under the care of the Followers. That hidden spot by the East Gate where they'd shared their first tender kiss. Every day he would have to walk past that secluded park behind the Old Mormon Fort where he and Natalie had first fallen in love. A very rare case of dual love at first sight that drawn them together. No, Freeside held too many memories and thus too much pain. A very large piece of his heart had died with Natalie and Kaitlyn.

Man or not, something like that tore your heart and soul to shreds. Some would say that man must be able to deal with such things. That he must not feel his emotions and bitter heartbreak in such a way. But even the strongest and most emotionally immune of men could not escape unscathed from seeing the two people they loved most butchered in front of them. A horror like that shattered the soul and cleaved the heart in two. Anger and coldness often seeped in among the wreckage to turn what remained into a bitter vengeance-filled creature.

"Why don't we head out into the old town ruins?" Dale suggested glancing westward "I guarantee you'll feel better after a stroll in the sun. We might even find something that'll help you get of this gloomy pit you're in."

"Maybe you're right," John replied "it's got to be better than listening to that damn song about the lonesome cowboy for the seventh time in a row. I swear that Mason's unusually fond of that damn song."

A gentle breeze sent a stray tumbleweed dancing across the dusty trail that led out of Sinclair. The sudden gust of wind took the edge off the desert heat for a moment giving the mismatched pair a brief reprieve. Neither man nor ghoul knew what they would find out there in the wastes. The sun-scorched Nevada Wasteland was an unforgiving and unpredictable environment that had claimed the lives of countless wanderers. One day could be very different from another with all manner of perils waiting to prey upon the unwary. Travel was becoming increasingly dangerous due to growing violence instigated by a vengeful Caesar's Legion which sought to avenge its tarnished honour after its extremely damaging defeat in the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. To make matters worse groups of murderous raiders had taken advantage of the Legion's decline to set up holdings of their own. Added to this was the increasing aggression of the wasteland's mutated fauna and roaming packs of feral ghouls that emerged from their dens after nightfall to prey on unwary Wastelanders.

Legion raiding parties had taken to murdering travellers on the roads. They burned entire villages to the ground and slaughtered trade caravans in cold blood. Anyone fortunate enough to avoid a brutal death was dragged away in chains to serve as a Legion plaything. Female slaves were treated as little more than bed-warmers for the men of the Legion while male slaves were beaten and humiliated for the amusement of their captors. Death was a preferable alternative to the evils that claim with slavery at the hands of the Legion. NCR territory ended at the edge of the Mojave meaning that the inhabitants of the vast bulk of the Nevada Wasteland were left to fend for themselves against a great many threats. The central regions were subjected to the brutal abuses of the Legion while the northern areas fell prey to marauding bands of raiders and slavers. The rule of law and an ordered society were entirely non-existent in these blood-soaked regions. Life was a constant struggle to survive in a lawless society that wanted to see you dead in a shallow grave.

"The pickings out here should be good," Dale mused as Sinclair fell away behind them "the Legion raiding parties have kept scavengers away. No one wants to risk it when there's a good chance you'll end up on the wrong side of a Legionary's sword."

"If it's so dangerous why are we heading into the ruins?" John questioned raising an eyebrow "Surely we'd be better off back in Sinclair or heading east."

"Because I know, for a fact, that the Legion isn't in the area. They're causing havoc to the south and northeast but they haven't been sighting in the area around Sinclair. Lanius is no fool. He won't want to risk over extending his forces lest he lose more men. The Legion took one hell of a beating at Hoover Dam. They can't afford to lose too many legionaries. So, they stay within a certain range of their camps."

Everyone in the Mojave and the greater Nevada Wasteland knew of Caesar's Legion. Scavengers told stories about the brutalities of the Legion around their campfires at night. Wanderers and struggling farmers lived in constant fear that one day they'd see terrible men of the Legion come tramping over the horizon. Travellers spoke of them in hushed tones fearing that mentioning their name would somehow summon them. The people of the wastes lived in fear that the Legion would return for vengeance against the victorious NCR Army. The Legion was weakened but it wasn't broken. Caesar wouldn't forget the insult done to him at Hoover Dam and Lanius would be hungering for revenge.

The personalities of the two most infamous men in the Legion weren't exactly secret. The legend of Lanius and his brutality had been passed from one traveller to another in the twilight hours as they sat around their campfires. Survivors of Legion raids and escaped Legion slaves told tales of Lanius' terrifying presence and the bloody violence he brought down on the heads of his enemies. His anger and murderous vengeance had become a terrifying legend known across the Nevada Wasteland. The Beast of the East, as he was ominously known, had a habit of allowing the occasional slave to escape his clutches in order to spread the news of his ruthlessness. These same escaped slaves and rare survivors also spread the legend and persona of Caesar himself in their fearful tales.

Few Wastelanders had ever had an audience with Caesar. But those who had, and who were allowed to survive the meeting, detailed the persona and nature of the fearsome Legion monarch in great detail. Dale, despite being a ghoul, was one of those few privileged individuals who had been given a personal audience with Caesar. The roguish ghoul had once explained that he'd been a Legion slave. He'd been forced to serve as Caesar's personal whipping boy after the Legion's revered leader had taken interest in him. Caesar had found Dale to be both highly repulsive and amusing. A grotesque mockery of humanity fit only to be mocked and beaten for amusement's sake. Dale had been forced to perform all the foulest and most degrading tasks Caesar could conceive of. All the while his captor had brooded over him heaping constant insults upon him and sharing crude jokes with his inner circle.

"As you can see," Dale said capping off his story "the Legion is led by two of the worst assholes that have ever drawn breath. I've met a few cocky mercenaries who like to shoot their mouths off saying all kinds of bullshit. Caesar's a weak old man who hides behind his soldiers. Lanius is just an ignorant savage. But they don't know shit! Some folks like to talk tough when they haven't seen the truth."

Apart from a few pesky Bark Scorpions, which Dale scared away with a few choice kicks, the trek to the Alamo Ruins was uneventful. Along the way John swore he caught glimpses of the yellowish-brown forms of Bark Scorpions watching him from cracks in the rocky outcroppings scattered along the trail. But the mutated arachnids didn't have the intelligence to stalk prey in the way that a more intelligent predator might. Experience had taught him that they were ambushed predators who only attacked humans or ghouls if threated. A bullet or even a bat made short work of the feisty mutated scorpions making them a minor threat to a capable wasteland wanderer. Their larger cousins the Radscorpions were the real threat armed as they were with much larger pincers and bared tails filled with a far deadlier poison.

Thoughts of mutated arachnids skittered about in John's head for the remainder of the trek to the Alamo Ruins. He'd never liked Bark Scorpions or their overgrown cousins. There was just something distinctly disconcerting about their eight beady black eyes that seemed to stare with a menacing intensity. The way they clacked their pincers in that ominous territorial display further added to the overall unpleasantness of the creatures. John had harboured a particular disliking for the creatures ever since he'd been stung by one as a child. The poison and subsequent fever had ever nearly killed him and he still carried the scar the barbed tail had ripped into his flesh. It served as a very poignant reminder warning him to steer clear of their lashing tails and snapping pincers. They didn't like him and he most certainly did not like them.

The ruins of the town of Alamo were a haunting sight. The broken shells of houses lay in neat rows along pathed streets that had long since crumbled into patches of rocky asphalt covered by sand. Some of the houses were relatively intact while others had crumbled into little more than spires of wood and brick that protruding out of the encroaching sands of the desert. A few larger buildings were dotted about nearer the middle of the ruins which Dale explained had likely been shops and service buildings before the bombs fell. As a ghoul Dale had been alive before nuclear fire consumed the world in what the old-timers and aspiring historians called the Great War. He remembered the Old World as it had been in a now long forgotten past. He remembered the day the bombs dropped and the frenzied chaos of that nuclear doomsday. But he chose to avoid talking about it except in certain situations when he felt the desire to do so. In his own words, it was all in the past and there was no good to be gained from talking about it.

"It doesn't look like anyone's been here," Dale said as he scanned the dusty trail ahead of them "no footprints and the place still has that stillness in the air. You know what I mean? The way the air feels thick and heavy when no one's been around in a very long time."

"I can't say I blame folks for steering clear," John replied with a grunt "what with the raiders around every corner and the prospect of running into a Legion patrol. You'd be better off jumping into a Nightstalker nest. This place doesn't really scream tourist destination. I mean it's in the ass end of nowhere with nothing but tumbleweeds and sandstorms."

"That's just the thing. It doesn't look the Legion has even been here. Those scumbags like to plaster their damn bull emblem on something when they discover a new place. Just to let everyone know they've been wasting oxygen. But I'm not seeing any Legion graffiti on the buildings or even Brahmin tracks. It must be our lucky day."

The wastes had taken a heavy toll on the old gas station. It stood tall and proud in the middle of the Alamo Ruins casting a dominating presence over the broken shells of the houses scattered around it. The biting sandstorms that tore across the desert flats on a semi-regular basis had stripped away any hint of paint. Its only adornments were patches of rust and the scars left by the biting sand. The tall forecourt canopy had stood defiantly against over two hundred years of wasteland weather and harsh sandstorms. Its towering concrete and steel struts had stood the test of time to keep the canopy aloft despite countless attempts at undermining its structural integrity.

The sight of the building reminded John of the picture he'd seen in a magazine as a small boy. That small glimpse of a world destroyed in nuclear fire preserved in the pages of a worn magazine. Before the bombs dropped the station had likely worn a neat coat of paint. Perhaps a crisp adornment that made its paintwork gleam in the sunlight. A neatly presented convenience store and two banks of fuel pumps that waited to serve the motorists that frequented the station. That small glimpse of a long-lost world had fascinated the young John as he crouched in the squalor of his slum home. It had given him a way to escape the harshness and suffering of his life in one of Freeside's most rundown slums. He could look at that worn picture and imagine a different world and a different life. Perhaps he could even imagine himself living in a real home with parents and a few toys to call his own.

"Snap out of it John! We didn't come all the way out here just so you could stand and stare off into space. We need to do something to get your mind off your troubles. Or at least get you focused on finding the bastards who did it."

"This place reminds me of something I saw in an old Pre-War magazine when I was a boy in Freeside. I remember the article about some fancy state-of-the-art fuel station that the author was incredibly enthralled by. I used to spend hours looking at that worn photo of a place just like this. I learned to read from that article and used to daydream about the world before the bombs fell."

"You spent hours looking at some dusty old photo and a bunch of scribbles from some long dead person? If you ask me that sounds rather depressing."

"I grew up in one of the worst slums in Freeside with no parents and nothing but the clothes on my back. The closest thing I had to a parent was a grumpy old man who tried to sell me to slavers. I had to hide in stinking piles of debris and rubble to escape armed thugs who killed some of us from time to time on a whim. That magazine was one of the small joys that helped me survive those times. It gave me a hope for something better. Just looking at that picture helped me believe life didn't begin and end in the slum."

"I didn't mean anything by it," Dale replied apologetically "but at least it's a good memory. We have to hold onto the good memories in this giant screw-over we call life in the wasteland. Because it will be those memories that get you through the hard times to come."

Dale patted John on the back and set off across the sun-baked dirt to the gas station. He whistled as he approached to alert and expose any feral ghouls that might be lurking inside. Ferals had a nasty habit of lying in a comatose state that mimicked death. To the untrained eye they appeared to be dead but would leap up and attack when an unwary Wastelander got too close. Dale, being a ghoul, speculated that it was a mixture of a survival instinct and a predatory deception. By feigning death they were able to lure potential prey into grabbing range without having to risk injury by attacking from a distance. The comatose state would also protect them from exposure to the sun which burnt their decaying forms speeding the degenerative process. It allowed them to avoid the harsh weather of the wastes that ate away at their weakened decrepit forms giving them a chance to heal. If only to slow down the rate at which they degenerated into little more than shambling corpses.

The first time they'd encountered a feral ghoul Dale had explained what he knew of the nature of them. He knew the weaknesses and struggles of ghoulification by virtue of being a ghoul. The ferals liked to hide in dark places during the day to avoid the ravages of the sunlight and often gathered near irradiated locations to bask in the low-level radiation that healed them. Their decaying forms were vulnerable to weather damage and bladed attacks that wore away at their already weakened forms. They lacked strength due to muscle decay and degenerated into mindless flesh-starved fiends as the result of severe brain damage caused by high-levels of radiation. Their higher brain functions declined causing them to become little more than crazed animals that snarled and growled. Dale lived with the constant fear that he would eventually turn feral and turn on those he cared about.

It would start with gradually losing his ability to talk. His words would slowly become more and more slurred until they became the snarling growls of the ferals. His ability to think rationally would decline at the same rate and he would eventually find himself possessed of little more than short animalistic thoughts. He would slowly find it harder and harder to order his thoughts and to keep his mind rational. Eventually he would lose his ability to use his rifle and even the simplest tools he had once been skilled with. His words would be no more than snarls and growls. His thoughts would be short and choppy animalistic ones concerned only with instinctual carnal needs. And finally he would no longer see John as his friend but as prey. At that point he would no longer be who he'd once been and he would be lost beyond hope.

"Come on out!" Dale said noisily kicking at a piece of rusted metal "I know you're in there!"

A chorus of gurgling snarls erupted from inside the building. Moments later a feral ghoul dressed in the tattered remnants of clothing burst through the front door. Dale killed it with a well-placed shot to the head and was in the process of reloading his rifle when four more feral ghouls burst from the building. They raced towards him but veered away at the last minute upon recognizing his ghoul face and instead charged John snarling frenziedly. John killed two of the four with speedy rifle shots and Dale dropped a third thanks to a lucky feat of marksmanship that saw his bullet find its way into the back of its head. The last feral ghoul met its end at the butt of John's rifle after Dale shot it through the leg causing it to stumble giving John a chance to knock it to the ground. He then caved its skull in with the hard wooden butt of his rifle.

"Well that was fun," Dale said with a grin as he kicked at one of the dead ferals "I knew this spot looked like the perfect place for a feral den. The dumb bastards are so damn predictable. Anywhere remotely dark is almost guaranteed to have ferals lurking inside it."

"Do you mind telling me why they didn't attack you? I thought ferals attacked anything that moves. But they ran straight past you and came at me instead."

"It's because I'm a ghoul and the ferals can't tell the difference between one of their own and a non-feral. I look enough like them for them to see me as one of their own. Believe me John, it's not a compliment. Those egghead types back in New Vegas seem to think that we ghouls give off the same pheromones as the ferals. So apparently we smell like them and look enough like them to blend in."

"I bet that's come in handy. Getting mobbed by ferals when you pass any remotely dark place isn't exactly a pleasant experience. I'd rather not be eaten alive by a pack of frenzied ferals if I can avoid it."

Dale kicked at the corpse of one of the feral ghouls. A hint of emotion flashed across his face and his brows wrinkled as he looked down at the twisted creature that had once been human. He imagined that it had once been a ghoul much like himself who'd eventually been driven feral. Maybe it had resisted for as long as it could before the dagger-like claws of the ghoul degenerative disorder, as the scientists back in Camp McCarran called the process, had shredded its mind turning into a feral beast. Perhaps it had taken shelter in the gas station when the bombs fell and centuries of radiation had eventually ghoulified it. Perhaps it had once been a terrified man who'd panicked during the chaos of the Great War. Denied entrance to one of Vault-Tec's much lauded vaults perhaps it had led a small group of terrified Alamo residents to the makeshift shelter of the gas station. Dale chuckled at the scenario his mind had concocted despite the lack of any evidence.

"We might as well check inside," Dale said breaking himself free of his thoughts "the ferals would have kept any scavengers out. So there's a good chance we'll find something useful in there. Who knows? Maybe we'll be able to make a few caps."

John nodded his agreement and made his way across to what had once been the forecourt of the gas station. Thick metal pillars held up the decaying canopy and two carefully spaced raised concrete platforms ran the length of the forecourt. The only traces of the fuel pumps that had once stood on those raised platforms were a few rusted scraps of twisted metal. It looked like something large had ripped them from their anchorages leaving deep gouges that painted an ominous story. Further investigation revealed that the pumps now lay on the far side of the forecourt as if they had been torn out and thrown.

Broken glass crunched and crackled under Dale's foot as he ventured inside the building. The sliding entrance door had fallen from its tracks and now lay on the ground covered in dents. The glass in every window in the building had been blown out leaving scatterings of sparkling glass all over the floor. Dale explained that the windows had likely been shattered by decades of sandstorms that beat at them until they broke. Sometimes the storms picked up rocks and other small debris turning them into projectiles. At their worst the sandstorms on the desert plains were capable of ripping a person to shreds with the debris they hurled around at immense speeds. At their best they were little more like a minor nuisance that could be ignored with a little effort. Fortunately the severe sandstorms were a rare occurrence and were usually preceded by a tell-tale wailing on the wind.

Dale was busy rummaging through a dusty row of shelves when John slipped through the door. He seemed intent on his task so he made his way through to the back room to try his luck. After a brief struggle with a metal drawer whose lock had rusted shut John began rifling through the contents of what looked to have been a lockbox of some kind. At the very bottom of the drawer underneath a heap of yellowed papers he found three Med-X syringes still in their protective wrapping. A bottle of Buffout rolled down from the back of the drawer to hit his hand as he carefully extracted the Med-X. He carefully placed his discoveries in a pocket in his Brahmin-skin scavenger bag which he wore slung over his shoulder.

"Have you found anything good out there Dale?"

"Looks like someone was trying to make a stash here before the ferals moved in. I've got a couple of bottles of beer, a bottle of wine, a couple of stimpaks and some assault rifle ammo. It seems the poor bastard was a bit of a drinker and I call him a poor bastard because I'm currently looking at his half eaten body."

"Shit! What a hell of a way to go! Poor bastard must have been screaming. Now I feel really good for putting down those damn ferals. Almost seems like wasteland justice."

John emerged from the back room and grimaced when he caught sight of the body. The unfortunate man lay in a bloodied heap behind the cashier's counter. His torn clothing revealed a torso covered with bite marks and large chunks of missing flesh that exposed crimson-hued rib bones. Deep gouges covered his arms and torso providing grisly evidence of the frenzied attack that had claimed his life. Dale shook his head and wished he had something to cover the man's body with. He deserved some dignity but any scrap of fabric that might have once been housed in the storage room had long since rotted away.

So, with John's help, he dragged the body outside to an empty patch of dirt behind the gas station and covered it with rocks. Even that most basic burial would give the poor man a final resting place and some dignity in death. Anyone else might have simply left the body where it lay but Dale had always been deeply sentimental. He believed that everyone deserved to have their body buried and not left out as a feast for the bloatflies. Sentiments mattered a great deal to Dale. You helped those who helped you, you never walked past a wounded stranger begging for help and you gave a body the proper dignity of a burial. Dale explained that he'd held these beliefs since long before he'd been turned into the ghoul that he was now. It was a part of who he was.

"There you go," he said softly looking down at the heaped pile of rocks "now you can at least rest in peace. The bloatflies and the scavengers won't make a meal out of you. I don't know who you were but I'm sorry you died the way you did. No one deserves that."

John took a swig from one of the beer bottles before pouring a portion of the brownish liquid out on the grave in a mark of respect. Dale reached for the bottle and John obligingly handed it to him. The solemn-faced ghoul took a long swig before pouring the last of the well-aged alcohol out on the grave. He tucked the empty bottle into a jacket pocket and carefully placed the dead man's cowboy-style hat on the roughly-made wooden cross at the head of the grave. He hoped that if he met his end out in the wastes he'd at least be given the same dignity.

"Rest in peace whoever you were," John said solemnly "at least you're in a better place now."

With those last solemn words the pair turned to leave. They set off into the ruins leaving behind the decaying shell of a once heavily frequented place. A ghost of the Old World resigned to crumble and rust away under the harsh ravages of an alien wasteland.

Dale was haunted by memories of the Old World every step he took. The ghosts of the past reached for him crying out through the nuclear fire that had consumed their world. Every street brought back flashes of what had once been. An empty dirt lot with patches of twisted metal had been the local park where he used to sit on the benches and work through the stresses of life. A cracked and debris strewn street had been his daily route to work. That once pristine stretch of asphalt had witnessed so many conversations with work colleagues and that unfortunate afternoon he'd got into a fender-bender with his neighbour. The half-collapsed house to his right had once been the well maintained and carefully cared for house of his elderly mentor. The kind-hearted Mr. Johnston would be sad to see it in its current state.

"Are you okay Dale? We can leave if it's too much for you. There are other places we could try."

"I haven't been back here in a long time," Dale answered after a long pause "it really is like taking a stroll down memory lane. Everything around here brings back memories and not all of them good. I wish I could show you how this place looked before the bombs dropped. It was a nice little place. It wasn't one of those postcard towns but it was my home."

The gregarious and quick witted ghoul led John down the potholed remnant of a suburban street to a dishevelled two-story building. Dale paused in front of the building for several long minutes making an effort to keep his emotions from making themselves obvious on his face or in his body language. But he could not suppress the brief flash of sadness that creased his brows revealing his sorrow at the state of the house. Its tiled roof had collapsed exposing broken wooden beams that stuck out at twisted angles like the ribs of a skeleton. The crisp white paint that had once adorned its four walls had long since been blasted off by sandstorms and two centuries of harsh nuclear weather. A large section of the eastern wall appeared to have buckled under the weight of the collapsed roof giving way and collapsing into a pile of twisted wood.

Every window had shattered and the house's interior was visible through a multitude of gaping holes and the collapsed wall. The harsh weather had reduced the inside of the house to a worthless heap of rotten scarred wood that wasn't even useful as scrap material. It looked like Mole Rats had made their den in the ruined lounge for quite some time and tracks revealed that other small animals had frequented the interior over the years. At least it had been able to provide a home for some form of life in the midst of nuclear devastation. Dale carefully made his way inside and began rummaging about in the rubble. John kept a respectful distance and instead watched the sombre ghoul as he made his way through the building with downcast eyes. In life there were some things you had to do alone. There were times when you didn't want company. There were times when you just wanted to be allowed to feel. Saying goodbye to your home was one of those moments. So John leaned against a wooden fencepost and took a long drag from his bottle of water. Dale needed this.

"Poor old girl," Dale said as he ran a hand slowly down one side of the ruined doorframe "you gave me so much but you just couldn't hold out. But I'll always have the memories."


	3. Chapter 2

"Are you okay Dale?"

A look of deep concern dawned in John's eyes as he watched his ghoul friend standing silently at the door to the ruined building. His brows furrowed instinctively and before he knew what he was doing his feet had carried him up the broken stone path to stand beside Dale. The ghoul's dark eyes were unreadable and distant. It was as if he was staring off into the past where he couldn't follow. He was about to reach out to touch Dale's shoulder when the ghoul shook himself out of his daze.

"There are a lot of memories for me here," Dale replied sombrely "memories of things I've lost and a life that I will never see again. A fragment of my past that I never expected to see again."

"You used to live here didn't you? I can only imagine what seeing this place must feel like. Do you need a moment?"

"I'm not going to break down into tears John," Dale answered quietly "this place isn't home anymore but I want to pay my respects anyway. Come on in and have a look. Though by the look of things 'in' is a somewhat relative word."

A few broken shards of wood were all that remained of the house's front door. They stuck out from the doorframe at precarious angles like broken ribs. Deep scratches, presumably left by the former Mole Rat inhabitants as they marked their territory, covered the doorframe itself further adding to the dilapidated state of the building.

Dale pushed his way through the door breaking off the wood fragments as he did so. After waiting a few minutes John followed him through to be met with an interior littered with piles of rubble and broken beams. Beams of sunlight shone down through the holes in the roof illuminating the heaps of broken roof tiles and wooden supports beneath them. Any furniture that might once had graced the interior rooms had long since collapsed into piles of wooden rubble torn apart by the predations of the Mole Rats. An old rusted television set lay on its side in a corner with grimy marks on its sides where it had been used as a back scratching post. Numerous tracks winded their way through the piles ending at deep hollows dug into the floor in deliberately selected spots.

John shook his head and patted his uncharacteristically quiet friend on the back. He knew the ghoul would be grieving beneath the mask of indifference and detached observation he'd put on. Seeing what had once been your home in such a state took a heavy toll on you regardless of how much time had passed. Dale buried his sadness and pain well but he could not keep it entirely hidden. It showed itself in a momentary look on his face or in a passing gleam in his eyes. Deep down inside Dale was grieving.

He was about to say something when Dale rushed across the room and began rummaging in a pile of debris. The ghoul dug with an unwavering focus that left John hesistant to interrupt him. Something had very clearly caught his interest and if it was worth such attention it must surely be important to him. John found himself becoming more and more intrigued as Dale gradually cleared out a space.

Dale eventually cleared away enough of the rubble to reveal the dull black form of a safe. With the tenderness of familiarity he carefully pulled the safe out from among the rubble and set it down on the floor. He paused for a few moments before entering the combination that would unlock his long forgotten safe. The heavy metal door slowly swung open and what passed for a grin spread across his face.

"I almost forgot I'd left this here," Dale said reaching into the safe "this is the only thing I have left of my life before the bombs fell. I put it here for safe keeping thinking that I'd only be away for a few minutes. But a nuclear apocalypse has a way of changing your plans."

Dale's grin widened as he turned to face him. Clutched tightly in his hands was a small wooden case which he carefully opened to reveal the sleek form of a .45 revolver. Its frame looked to have been cast in silver giving its metal workings a classy sheen that had been preserved untarnished by the protective case. An oiled oak handgrip decorated with a stylized 'W' and an intricate vine pattern capped off the gun's overall stylish appearance. Clearly someone at some point had spent a great deal of money on the gun and had gone to great things to make it as classy as possible.

He tenderly ran a hand down its length as if stroking a baby's head and traced the etched letter in its handgrip. Even an untrained eye would have been able to recognize the emotion and thoughtfulness in Dale's eyes as he looked at the gun. It was the gaze of someone looking at something that held several lifetimes worth of meaning. The long drawn out stare of someone beholding something that was part of their very being.

"My great-grandfather once owned this gun. My family history says that he used it as his personal sidearm in the First World War. Before he died he passed it down to my grandfather who used it as his personal sidearm in the Second World War. Just before he died my grandfather passed it down to my father who used it as his personal weapon during his career as a cop. My father passed it on to me on his deathbed. This gun has been passed down through three generations. I only wish…"

"That you had someone to pass it down to," John said cutting him off "that the tradition didn't have to end with you."

The surging mixture of emotions hit him like a charging Big Horner. It felt as if a clawed hand were tearing his gut apart while barbed wire was being dragged across his mind. The memories flashed through his mind in an unbearable sequence of horrific freeze frames. His pulse raced as he clutched at the wall beside him and he could feel himself breathing rapidly. A film of hot sticky sweat broke out on his forehead as he struggled to control his breathing while fighting back the memories that tore through his mind.

"Oh shit John I'm sorry," a raspy voice said from a faraway place "its okay John. It's okay. You can get through this. Remember the river. Go back to the river."

It felt like Dale's voice was a thousand miles away lost in the tempest. But even in this state John could not ignore the sight of the familiar Ghoul face in front of his own with concern so clear in its eyes. A firm grip on a shoulder created a steadying effect that reminded John that he wasn't alone. Experience had taught Dale that physical contact helped to calm his long-term friend when he went into one of these traumatic episodes. There were things that traumatised the human mind so much that railed against the truth. In some cases it created a delusion in place of the truth, other times it blocked it out entirely resulting in amnesia and sometimes it was simply overwhelmed by the sheer trauma of what had happened.

John was of the last kind. The smallest of reminders could send him into an episode like the one he was in now. It could a passing comment, a familiar location or even a picture. Anything connected to the violent deaths of his wife and daughter. In its struggle to come to terms with what had happened John's mind had repressed the memories of the event. John's inability to face up to and deal with it had caused his mind to repress the memories. When these memories were roused his traumatised mental state rose to the fore sending him into a freak out episode. The only thing that calmed him was the mental image of a gently flowing river. It was a technique Dale had learned to help him cope with the stress of his job.

"You're at the river John," Dale continued softly "can you see it? What does it sound like? What does the water look like? Keep looking at the river."

John's breathing slowly returned to normal. The sombre slideshow in his mind slowly gave way to quiet normality. A series of deep breaths lowered his pulse to a healthy resting pace and after a few moments he was himself again. He leaned against the remnants of a hallway wall and smiled at Dale. His river technique had proved invaluable yet again in helping to calm and ground him. The ghoul had quickly learned that he needed to calm his friend down as quickly as possible or he'd descend into either a depressive suicidal stupor or an erratic frenzy. The unresolved trauma and the painful memories blended together into a poisonous cocktail that played havoc on his mind.

"I'm sorry Dale," John apologized with a long sigh "I hate it when I get like this. I hate that I just keep having these breakdowns. Thank you for helping me through it. I wish I could make them stop or at least control them somehow."

"Don't worry about it," Dale replied with what passed for a concerned smile "it's not your fault. You're dealing with some really messed up shit. It's going to take you a long time to heal. But you have to face it John. If you keep running from it things are only going to get worse."

"You're right. But I don't know how to face it. I can't just let go Dale. I've tried so hard to but I just can't. When I'm awake the memories are playing in the back of my mind and when I'm asleep they warp my dreams into nightmares. I just can't make it stop. I'm forced to watch them die over and over again."

"You'll get there," Dale answered squeezing John's shoulder gently with one large hand "you don't get over something like that overnight. No, agony like that takes a very long time to heal. Your mind has to heal just as much as your heart does. But you have to choose to face it. It may take weeks or months or even years but you have to choose to face it. You take it one little step and a time. That's all, one step at a time. The healing will only begin once you decide to face it. Sometimes facing it means seeking justice."

"Seek justice? Are you suggesting that I track down the bastards that kill them and put a bullet in their heads? I'm not going to lie to you Dale. That idea appeals to me more than you know. But I have no idea who they were or where they went."

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting," Dale replied with a roguish smirk "take it from someone who has been around for quite some time. Sometimes taking your revenge feels damn good. It can help you deal with what happened and make sure that justice is done. Plus it means that the assholes who did it won't be able to do it again. Thus, you're doing a good dead. You're sparing anyone else the heartache and suffering you're going through. Consider it a public service my friend."

"Isn't there an old saying about needing to dig two graves when you seek revenge? My father used to say something along those lines when I was growing up. Something about revenge destroying you as well as the person you're taking revenge on."

"Bah!" Dale grumbled as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from a jacket pocket "That's just a flowery little proverb from the Old World. We live in a different world now and in case you haven't noticed it's not a particularly moral one. In the wasteland you have to defend yourself and you have to fight when you need to. Sometimes that means taking revenge when someone wrongs you."

The visibly brooding ghoul, evidenced by the faraway look in his eyes and the scowl that had dawned on his face, delicately pulled a cigarette from the packet. He held it in place between what had once been his lips and thrust a hand into another of his jacket pockets. Retrieving a worn flip-top lighter from the depths of a side pocket he deftly lit his cigarette and took a long drag before shoving the lighter into a pouch on his belt. He grinned when he saw John watching him.

"Hey, it helps me relax and it's not like the chemicals are gonna hurt me. That's actually one of the good things about being a ghoul. Now let's get the hell out of here before some raider psychos show up and decide to try their luck."

Dale chose a southwest route back to Sinclair that took them through the slowly decaying remains of the Pre-War town of Alamo. It led them down dusty streets pathed with asphalt that had crumbled away to such an extent that it now resembled cracked patches of rock. Centuries of harsh desert sand had worn off any hint of road markings and other surface features. But even if this decayed state it was recognizable as a road. Dale explained the streets of Alamo had once been smoothly asphalted and painted with road markings. The town had taken great pride in its well-maintained streets and public spaces. The long-dead townsfolk would be horrified if they could see the decayed state of their town.

As they walked they passed rows of houses and scattered shops that had been blasted by the harsh and unforgiving desert sands. The buildings themselves appeared to be intact but the weather had taken a heavy toll on them. Every last window had been shattered and the paint had been stripped from their walls by the sandstorms that tore across the desert flatlands from time to time. Sand had a coarseness that scoured any unprotected surface wearing away any hint of paint making attempts at decoration pointless. Its biting grains were whipped into the air in the sandstorms to sting the skin of an unprepared traveller. They irritated the eyes and weathered clothing faster than normal.

Even the normally hardy Mole Rats feared the desert sandstorms. They dove into their burrows the moment the wind began to pick up and didn't emerge again until the swirling tempests subsided. An experienced desert wanderer learned to watch the Mole Rats to get advance warning. They raised their heads to the sky and wiggled their noses picking up a change on the wind. First they vanished into their burrows and then the Radscorpions crammed themselves into any shelter they could find or burrowed as deep into the ground as they could. When the animals hid you did well to follow suit.

The sandstorms could come out of nowhere with a terrible wailing roar. Violent winds whipped the sand into a painful wall of biting stinging unpleasantness. Exposed skin was left torn, reddened and bloodied. Uncovered eyes were blinded and those caught outside were worn down to exhaustion by the effort of having to struggle against the sand-laced buffeting wind. More than one unprepared or careless traveller had met his end in the sandstorms leaving a ravaged and torn body to be eaten by the wasteland creatures.

"Let's hope we don't get caught in a sandstorm," John said as they walked "those things are damn nasty. I once saw a guy sand-blasted to death in the middle of one. The dumb bastard refused to wear any protection and kept bragging about how it was just a bit of sand. No one ever found his body. My bet is that a pack of Nightstalkers found it and carried it off."

"Yeah you'll always get cocky pricks like that," Dale replied shaking his head "there's just no talking sense into them. I like to call it survival of the fittest. The wasteland tends to get rid of the dumb ones for us. I knew a guy who liked to call himself a Deathclaw Whisperer. Claimed he could tame any Deathclaw by talking to it a special way. Well, I don't have to tell you how that story ends."

"I've only seen a Deathclaw once and I ran as fast as I could in the other direction. Apparently the NCR hires hunters to thin out their numbers but as far as I know no one is doing that outside NCR territory. The locals say the Deathclaws live in the hills and come out at night. That makes sense."

The Alamo Ruins fell away behind them as they walked and talked. Dale paused momentarily every so often to scan the horizon and listen carefully. Experience had taught the wandering ghoul to be aware at all times and to keep an eye on his surroundings. You didn't survive long as a wanderer unless you learned to pay attention and to anticipate threats before they came. Raiders had a nasty habit of laying carefully disguised traps among the desert brush and scattered rock falls. They would then lie in wait nearby until an unwary wastelander set off their trap at which point they would then emerge from hiding to torment their unfortunate victims.

Even the presence of Caesar's Legion hadn't been enough to deter the raiders. They seemed to have developed a liking for barbed leg-hold snares and spiked pit traps. The traps served a dual function in that they inflicted pain on their victims and saved the raiders the hassle of having to chase down and ambush their targets. When caught in a snare the unfortunate wastelander would be held tight and subjected to excruciating pain until the raiders returned to check the trap. If he was unfortunate enough to fall into one of the pit traps he found himself impaled on sharpened stakes crafted out of jagged pieces of rusted metal. Such a fate resulted in either immediate death or maiming. Both of which had become a sadistic source of amusement for the local raiders. They took pride in creating the most brutal and agony-inducing traps they could think of.

An agonized scream and panicked shouting shattered the desert quiet. A brief look of alarm passed between John and Dale before both set off at a sprint in the direction of the scream. Such a scream would draw in raiders and wasteland predators from miles around. Time was short. The sheer pain and panic carried in that shrill blood-chilling sound meant that something was very wrong and in the wasteland such a predicament always meant a matter of life or death. You didn't scream like that unless you were in mortal danger or had just suffered a life-threatening injury.

The sand beneath their feet seemed to flash by in a haze as they run as fast as they could knowing full well that raiders or desert mongrels could very well be doing the same. The large carnivores that called the desert home had learned that a scream often meant compromised prey and thus an easy meal. A scream was just the signal raiders would be waiting for to tell them that their trap had been sprung. If they didn't get there in time then whoever had made that scream was as good as dead. Radscorpions were likely already be scuttling in the direction of the scream looking for their next meal. Or maybe a pack of raiders were racing across the sands just as they were already imagining the loot that would be theirs.

Dale and John were neck-and-neck as they raced over a dune. They rounded a rocky outcropping to be met by the sight of a pack of nightstalkers circling three figures. The nightstalkers circled hungrily snarling and snapping at the cowering rag-clothed figures huddled in their midst. John willed himself to help them in some way but found that his body would not cooperate. His hand was frozen at his side and his mind whispered bitter accusations. There was nothing he could do. They were as good as dead. He hadn't been able to save Natalie and Anna. How could he possibly save these people? He was no good. He'd just make things worse for them. His breathing began to race and his heart pounded in his chest.

The loudness of the gunshot broke John out of his panic. A thin line of smoke snaked its way from the barrel of Dale's rifle. But a second shot proved to be unnecessary. The first had been enough to send the nightstalkers scampering off into the dunes. Dale missed intentionally in order to scare the nightstalkers off without having to harm any of them. Nightstalkers lived in the wasteland as well, even if they had been created in a laboratory, and as such he believed they deserved to live just as much as they did. Killing them was unnecessary given that they could be frightened away from their target and hadn't gone into the hunger frenzy that would've forced him to. Besides, firing the single warning shot meant that he could save the bullets that would've been wasted killing all six of them.

With the immediate threat resolved they were able to turn their attention to the three figures. A young man dressed in tattered grime-coated slave's robes lay on the ground screaming in pain with blood trickling from his leg. His unkempt dark hair was coated with dust and his skin was covered in bloody welts. He struggled against the jagged barbs of the bear trap on his leg but only succeeded in earning more pain. If something was done soon his screams would attract something far worse than a pack of nightstalkers.

"Stop struggling!" Dale shouted as he made his way over to the group "You're just driving the barbs deeper into your leg and don't more damage. Try to stay as still as you can."

"Who are you?" exclaimed the young woman crouched next to him "we don't have any valuables."

"I mean you no harm," Dale said raising his hands to show that he wasn't holding a weapon "I'm a friend. I'm here to help you. I'm not here to rob you and I promise I'm not a threat. Don't you think I would've shot you by now if I wanted to?"

The young woman's gaze rapidly flicked between Dale and John. The gleam in her dark eyes showed that she didn't trust them. She ran a hand through her thickly knotted red hair in a fruitless attempt at dislodging some of the dust and grime. Clad in the same tattered and grime-coated slave rags as her friend she had clearly seen better days. After a few moments of carefully studying him she gave a brisk nod in the direction of the man on the ground by way of giving permission.

"I'm Is…Isabella," she stammered through cracked lips "D…do yo…you think you can help him? His name's Miguel."

"It doesn't look too bad," Dale said crouching next to the man "lucky for him it seems the bear trap was too heavily rusted to work properly. It stopped short of snapping his leg but he's going to have a nasty wound."

The third member of the group was a dark-skinned young man. His black hair was coated in dust in much the same fashion as his friends and he wore slave rags that were in a slightly better state than theirs. His dark eyes seemed listless and far away as he wobbled uneasily on his feet. His arms and legs were covered in sun-blisters that looked to be painful. His unsteadiness hinted at a weakness he was battling to keep hidden from his companions perhaps in an effort at keeping up their moral in a seemingly hopeless situation.

"My name's Ste..Stephen," he said softly with a weak smile "th…thank you for sa…saving us from those creatures."

John saw the tell-tale signs that Stephen was about to fall long before it happened. He stumbled in place as he spoke and swayed visibly under the effort of holding himself up. The desert had taken a heavy toll on him which had only been worsened by the encounter with the nightstalkers. To save him from the inevitable fall John slipped his arm around Stephen's shoulders to hold him upright. He gratefully leaned against him to take advantage of his strength thanking him by way of a brisk nod and a smile.

Dale had managed to physically pry the bear trap from Miguel's leg. The rusted tool of torment now sat discarded in a heap of rocks glistening with a grisly scarlet coating. Dale had produced a wad of rags from his jacket and was now busily wrapping the heavily bleeding wound. He didn't have spare rags to wipe away the excess blood but at least he'd been able to bind the wound. It was an amateur binding by the standards of wasteland medic's but it did the job. Dale was many things. He'd been a mercenary, an assassin, a scavenger and most recently a wanderer. But he was not a wasteland doctor and he didn't pretend to be but he knew enough to get by. If you wanted to survive out in the wastes you needed to know how to treat and bind wounds. Even a very limited amount of medical knowledge was enough to save your life in a tight spot. When you were alone out in the wasteland you couldn't afford to be unprepared. An untreated wound would soon become infected and would then fester resulting in eventual blood poisoning. At that point you were already dead.

"It's not safe out here," Dale said looking up from his place at Miguel's side "radscorpions will smell the blood from miles away and those nightstalkers will be back. When they get hungry enough it'll take more than a few warning shots to scare them off. We have to get moving."

"I don't know if he'll be able to walk," Isabella replied with a quiver in her voice "he looks pretty hurt and we have nowhere to go."

"You can come with us," John replied breaking his silence "there's a settlement called Sinclair that's not to fair away. It's just over two hours southeast of here. Dale and I will help you. Miguel can lean on me and we'll get you all there."

Miguel groaned in pain as Dale carefully helped him to his feet. The ghoul had been as gentle as he could but the physical exertion of standing up had put significant weight on Miguel's injured leg. He clenched his teeth and slung an arm around Dale's shoulder. He hadn't reacted to the fact that Dale was a ghoul. A large portion of Wastelanders still harboured anti-ghoul attitudes with even sentient ghouls being subjected to abuse. In some regions they were hated and feared so much that entire communities turned against them labelling even the friendliest of sentient ghouls a monster. They were driven away into the wastes and in some cases outright murdered. But Miguel and his friends showed nothing but gratitude and friendliness to Dale.

The sun had begun its slow descent to the horizon and the shadows of the desert hills were already starting to stretch out across the desert plains like inky black fingers reaching across the barrenness to clutch at them. Nightfall was not a time you wanted to find yourself miles away from shelter in one of the most exposed places in the area. Not when you were in the shadow of the hills. During the day the desert heat was too savagely hot for Deathclaw. They hid in the shade of their lairs in the hill. But night brought coldness with it and they were able to emerge from hiding to stalk their prey. A single Deathclaw, male or female, was more than a much for even the most heavily armoured of Wastelanders at close range. The larger Deathclaw bulls had been known to rip apart suits of T-60 Power Armour to get at their fleshy prey inside. In a hunger frenzy or a rage the hulking reptilian horrors could rip pieces clean off suits of power armour. A Deathclaw was nothing something you wanted to encounter if you valued your life. They were almost always hostile and regarded humans as a convenient food parcel.

"We need to get moving now," Dale chimed in "because we really don't want to find ourselves stuck out in the ass end of nowhere after dark. Not only does it get cold but the nastier residents of this hellhole we call home come out to play."

Dale set off without waiting to see if anyone was following him. The gritty mixture of rocks and sand crunched under his heavy booted foot as he walked a deliberately fast pace. Dale was a complicated ghoul at the best of moments. He could be witty one moment and sullen the next. His experiences in the wastes and the past he refused to talk about had hardened him. Life as a Legion slave had taken a toll on him even if he refused to admit it. In his own words Dale had been Caesar's 'pet freak' and the target of unending abuse during his captivity. His treatment at the Legion's hands had made him deeply distrustful and outright surly to those he didn't know. Dale only showed his witty and relaxed side to those he counted as his friends. Few ever saw the caring and gentle side that existed inside.

To a stranger Dale might seem outright unpleasant. He spoke in surly tones and didn't tolerate any nonsense. If he thought a remark or suggestion was stupid he openly called it exactly that. He kept you at a distance and made it abundantly clear he didn't trust or particularly like you. But this rough and seemingly uncaring exterior was little more than a defensive measure. As a ghoul Dale had been subjected to blatant and unashamed abuse by a great many people. The fact that he had helped their three unexpected companions was unusual for him. He would've normally left them to die out in the wastes. After all they were strangers. For all he knew they were just more bigots like the ones back in Freeside. Perhaps the gruff old ghoul was beginning to mellow.

Miguel leaned on Stephen and hobbled after Dale with the help of his weakened friend. John and Isabella followed close behind them keeping a careful eye on the visibly frail pair. Isabella seemed in better condition than her two friends and along the way explained the reason for this. Stephen and Miguel had sacrificed a portion of their own supplies in order to keep her healthy. She was younger and fitter than them and would be able to run for help if the need arose. Her speed and lightness had made her a prized slave to the raiders who had owned the group of them. She'd been used as a forced messenger with the threat of a timed bomb collar forcing her to return to her masters after each run. If she tried to take the bomb collar off it would detect that it was being tampered with and explode. If she didn't get back in time it would explode. Only the raider boss could disarm the timer and save him from a gruesome death.

Isabella provided the first female companionship John had had in a very long time. Despite himself and the dancing spectres that tore at his mind he enjoyed having her with him. At least until the guilt forced its way into his mind. Was he betraying Natalie's memory by talking to her? He'd loved her more than any other woman he'd ever known but here he was talking with another woman while her death was still unavenged. He had no right to be talking to any woman. Let alone one he'd only just met and knew nothing about. He'd dishonoured her memory and made a mockery of what he'd had with her. His mind threw the accusations at him in a whirlwind of continuous blows. It called him a liar, a betrayer, a cheater and a fool. It accused him of never truly loving her. He'd obviously moved on. She'd obviously meant that little to him that he forget her the moment another woman looked in his direction. What kind of a man was he? How could he say he loved her?

John clenched his hand until his knuckles whitened in a fruitless effort at stopping the trembling. He struggled to keep his breaths even and fought to calm the racing of his heart. Focusing on the sight of Dale several steps ahead he did his best to ignore the whispering chatter in his mind. But try as he might he couldn't silence the guilt and shame. Natalie's murderer was still walking the wastes and here he was talking to another woman. Had he forgotten about her so quickly? Had he given up on bringing that monster to justice? His mind continued to race and his pulse quickened to such an extent that he felt like his heart would explode. He couldn't stop his hands trembling no matter how hard he tried. Surely Isabella had noticed by now. She likely thought he was some fort of maniac and was secretly regretting the decision to accept his help. From now on she'd think he was some sort of freak. Or maybe a strung out chem addict who was just waiting to mug her. She couldn't possibly know the struggle going on inside him or the way that his own mind was working against him fuelled by the festering guilt. He had not right to be alive when Natalie and Anna had died in such horrible ways. It should've been him lying in a pool of his own blood on the sun-baked sand. He'd failed them and now he was failing himself by not being able to keep himself together. Giving up would be easy.

The trip back to Sinclair took longer than expected due to a sudden sandstorm that forced them to rush for cover behind the crumbling ruins of a concrete structure. The rising wail in the distance had been all the warning they'd needed to bolt for the nearest cover which had come in the form of an old Pre-War building. Two centuries of blasting sand and weather had destroyed any suggestion of what the building had once been leaving behind only a roofless broken shell strewn with holes. But it had been enough to shelter them from the biting sand that was flung at them at the speed of bullets by the raging winds. They'd crouched behind the meagre cover with their buried into their chests to guard against the sand and its tendency of always finding exposed eyes.

But the sudden onset of the raging sandstorm did have its benefits. Faced with the imminent threat John was distracted from his bitter guilt and self-hate. Even his traitorous mind was silenced by the wail of the sandstorm and stinging bite of the grains of sand flung high into the air. When you were faced with very present danger everything else tended to fall to the side. The human survival instinct kicked in and ignored everything else until the danger had past. Even the Deathclaw would patiently delay emerging from their dens in the face of such a savage sandstorm. They might be covered in thick scales but even they knew the perils of being out in the open during one of these storms. The very worst of them could rip the scales clean off a Deathclaw leaving deep welts and sores behind.

Night had fallen by the time they finally arrived at Sinclair. The sandstorm had lasted just under an hour robbing them of the valuable travelling time that would've allowed them to beat the darkness. The temperature dropped dramatically with the fading light brining bitter cold that drove away the heat of the day. A bitter biting cold that clawed at your bones and sapped your energy. The desert was just as lethal at night as it was during the day with an entirely new set of perils. Feral ghouls crawled out from their hiding places in the Alamo Ruins and scattered broken buildings to hungrily prowl the desert. The before mentioned threat of roaming Deathclaw turned the night into a thing of fear and death. Packs of Nightstalkers became filled with a new lease of energy and ferocity free of the burning sun. But on the upside the Radscorpions and their Bark Scorpion cousins scurried away to their borrows to avoid the cold.

Samuel Lawson, the young blond haired son of the Stumbling Brahmin's proprietor, was waiting to greet them with a lantern. The light shone through the darkness like a beacon leading them to safety and rest. In soft golden glow illuminated the quizzical look on Samuel's face and the slight smile. It obviously amused him to see five figures instead of the two he had been told to expect. He gave a soft laugh and turned on his heels to lead them to his father's inn.

"My father told me to wait out here for you," he said softly as they walked "but it looks like you've found a few friends. That's nothing to be concerned about though. It's always good to see new faces in town. You'll be a very welcome sight."

"We found them stranded in the middle of the desert plains," came Dale's rasping reply "their friend here had his leg stuck in a raider trap. When we found them a pack of nightstalkers were looking to make a meal out of them and you know we had to do something."

"It sounds like you two have had quite an adventure," Samuel answered "I wish I could go out on one of your trips with you some time. But my father says it's too dangerous."


End file.
